


Marked

by speccygeekgrrl



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-06
Updated: 2009-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speccygeekgrrl/pseuds/speccygeekgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar thinks it's fitting to return to the loft to do a little prophetic painting. As the new tenant of the space, Mohinder disagrees-- but the paintings don't lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

What it is about the loft, Sylar isn't quite sure. It's such a pivotal place in his life, each time he leaves marking a choice that impacts him forever after, and in a strange way it's comforting to return. The inside is different, even since he shot Maya and made off with the cure for what ailed him: there's more clear space, more of a bleach scent in the air, fewer bits of lab equipment and more boxes stacked on the walls. The only reminder of Isaac is the explosion indeliably printed on the floor, the same one that Sylar recreated in his mother's blood on a day he left this loft, so long ago.

He can't explain his reasons, or doesn't want to, when he unlocks the door to the loft with his mind, carrying a cardboard box heavy with the tools of his stolen form of augury: canvases, thick watercolor paper, oil paints and water-based ones, brushes and a palette and linseed oil and rags. All of the easels are occupied with whiteboards and chalkboards, equations that make sense only to the man who put them there. Slowly, deliberately, he sets up his makeshift studio: one chalkboard moved aside, one canvas propped up with others ready to be swapped in, paint carefully daubed in a proper color-circle on the palette, and he runs his fingers through the brushes, letting the right one make itself known.

The long moments he spends simply looking at the canvas, not calling forth the prophetic ability, aren't fear, or anticipation, or hope. He knows what his next move should be: he has to find Claire, explore the twists and whorls of that wonderfully unique brain, take some of what she has (doesn't she have more than enough life to share?), and then...

And then. That's the problem. What then? The cheerleader has been his goal for so long, and only slightly below her on the priority list is Mohinder-- but Sylar doesn't need the List, doesn't need Mohinder's aid, doesn't really need anything from the geneticist. But he still can't shake the need to find the man.

Between one thought and the next, his eyes shut and open blank and white as the canvas before him. He doesn't feel the changing brushes between his fingers, the smudges of paint collecting on his skin, the rough canvases as he changes finished for new. He doesn't see what comes from his work, bold lines and angles at first, smoother edges and softer colors as he makes his way through every canvas he purchased. When the color comes back to his eyes, the thoughts back to his mind, Sylar has both hands braced on the table, a crick in his neck, the fingers of his right hand aching; before he can see what he's painted, he hears a sharp intake of breath behind him.

Sylar doesn't need enhanced hearing to catch that gasp, or to know who made it. He's heard Mohinder's breath before in every state from sleeping to frantic, and that wasn't a sound of fear. Tilting his head to one side, Sylar cracks the ache out of his neck and takes a step back to regard his artwork.

At first, his eyes refuse to make sense of it-- too many colors, the lines blurred, no space-- and as sudden as an optical illusion becomes a boat, the strokes and swirls of paint resolve into bodies, not merely described in paint but splattered with it. Orange and yellow streaked on spice-brown skin, blue and violet splattered on a white body, the visual confusion of long limbs and dark heads pressed close: Mohinder's back arching, a leg wrapped around Sylar's waist as he's pinned by the madman's hands and hips.

The painting is more gorgeously obscene than any daydream, more promising, and Sylar knows that his cheeks are flushed when he finally turns. "Hello, Mohinder," he says, but it comes out throaty and lustful instead of cool and menacing. Mohinder has to drag his eyes away from the painting to meet Sylar's.

"Why--" That cultured voice cracks on the first word, and he swallows, running a hand through his curls nervously. "Why are you painting in my lab?"

"Why not? It used to be an art studio. I didn't think you'd mind." Then again, he hadn't thought that he'd be drawing out a future of what looked like really great sex with the new owner of the loft. There are other canvases, and a quick glance shows that all but one of them were in the same vein as this last one: Mohinder nude, chin lifted defiantly; paint-splattered hands cupping each other's faces in a kiss; a couple that skirt the line between artwork and pornography only by virtue of being painted.

"I can't say I'm pleased to find you here." Cautiously, Mohinder walks around to see the other paintings, leaving a wide berth between himself and his too-frequent intruder. "Or that I'm comfortable with your subject matter..."

"Don't blame me, I wasn't myself while I painted." Flip as his statement is, Sylar bites the inside of his cheek as realization dawns across Mohinder's face.

"You mean-- you _can't_ mean," he stumbles over both his words and his own feet, trying to make an escape. "That's preposterous."

"Is it really so outrageous?" Sylar halts Mohinder's retreat with two uplifted fingers, holding the scientist still, stalking up behind him with feline grace. "The future is full of surprises, doctor." It makes so much more sense now, Sylar's inability to keep Mohinder out of his mind. This is _meant_ to happen. "Don't tell me you've never thought of it. Us."

"Never," Mohinder insists, flinching away from the warmth of Sylar's breath at his ear. "You killed my father. You're insane. How could I?"

"Oh, Mohinder. Haven't I done enough to _you_ for you to be mad about something besides your father's death?" Sylar drags two fingers over Mohinder's throat, leaving a streak of sunshine-yellow to mark the line where his pulse beats so quickly. "With all we've been through together..."

"Don't touch me." Mohinder's voice is weaker, but he still has his pride, jerking out of Sylar's reach as soon as the telekinetic hold is released. It's almost cute, like a kitten resisting a wolf, Sylar thinks, but swiftly revises his estimation of Mohinder up to at least a tiger cub when the man grabs a pair of scissors and lunges at him.

"Ooh, no." Sylar sidesteps and catches Mohinder easily, both arms wrapping securely around the smaller man, forcing the scissors out of his hand and kicking them aside. "You shouldn't run with scissors. Someone could get hurt." It's so ridiculously easy to restrain Mohinder: one hand catches both his wrists, the other arm pulls Mohinder's back flush to Sylar's chest, and Sylar rests his cheek against Mohinder's hair almost tenderly. "Just think. The future's already laid out, so why fight it?"

"Because there are some things I will never submit to." Mohinder turns his head, and it's obvious that he's looking at the paintings again. "Not from you." That earns an arch of Sylar's brows, a low chuckle rumbling through his chest.

"Why would I want you to submit? You're so much fun when you're fighting." Mohinder hisses, a helpless pissed-off sound, and Sylar turns to press a swift kiss to Mohinder's cheek, the first brush of stubble against his lips. He kind of likes the feeling. "I'll make you a deal. Stay long enough to help me put them in order, and if I can't convince you to remain when that's done, you can walk away..." Releasing the captive hands, Sylar drags one hand through Mohinder's hair, nudging him so their eyes can meet. "But you have to walk away knowing that this will be in your future. Somewhere, some time..."

"I'll take your deal," Mohinder says brusquely, shrugging out of Sylar's grasp and heading for the spread of drying canvases with quick businesslike strides. Hanging back, Sylar brushes two fingers across his lips and smiles. Either the paintings will do the job, or it will only take a little bit to unbalance the good doctor entirely, tip him across those lines of morality and restraint until he can either fall or be caught in Sylar's arms.

Mohinder stands before the paintings, arms crossed and head lowered. One painting can be placed away from the others: Claire Bennet cowering, her hands lifted to the line of blood crossing her forehead. Sylar comes up beside him soundlessly, a sudden presence at Mohinder's shoulder, and he makes an interested sound. "That's good. It's nice to have validation." He separates that one from the rest, floating it over by the door to the loft; no suggestions come forth as to the other ones. The longer Mohinder looks, the better, Sylar thinks.

"That one." Mohinder's hand shakes as he points to the painting of himself, a dark naked figure against a stark grey background, marred only by a flash of yellow at his throat. "Looks like it's first." Sylar has to smile when Mohinder's hand flies up to cover that splotch on his skin.

"It does look like a perfect place to start." His arm brushes along Mohinder's side as he maneuvers the indicated canvas to lean against the wall. "And then this one, I think." One of the rougher, more angular paintings; clothes on the floor, bare brown legs on tiptoe feet, a tangle of denim around white ankles. The panels lay out like a storyboard, and Mohinder's breath gets more ragged with every moment he doesn't look away. Sylar doesn't offer any more aid in plotting the timeline, but turns his attention to Mohinder, lips pressing behind one ear, his hand pulling Mohinder's away so Sylar can stroke fingertips over the trailed paint on his throat.

"Stop." The word of protest is belied by Mohinder's tacit acceptance of Sylar's touch, the way he leans backward into the taller man as his eyes slip shut. "I can't do this."

"Shh. I'm not going to hurt you, Mohinder." Over Mohinder's shoulder, Sylar looks at the remaining pictures, shivering with anticipation; it's thrilling to see the things Mohinder will allow him to do, surprising to see what he'll permit in return. "Absolutely the opposite, actually. I'm learning my lesson about breaking pretty, irreplaceable things."

"I don't belive you," Mohinder whispers, but when Sylar eases a hand rough with drying paint up the front of his shirt, he sighs and turns to brush his mouth against Sylar's stubbled cheek. "I don't think you know how to live without causing pain."

"That sounds like a dare. Does that mean you'll stay to find out?" He pulls Mohinder's shirts off as one before any answer has a chance to be voiced. He can hear the yes in the thud of Mohinder's pulse, can taste acquiescence when he finally catches that evasive pretty pout of a mouth, can feel the affirmation of Mohinder's skin under his careful hands, the _yes-and-more_ of Mohinder's hands crawling up his back. "It's not that I can't live without causing harm," Sylar adds conversationally when he pulls back, distancing himself in an attempt to control his hunger-- not the Hunger, the craving for more power, more knowledge, but the simple ravenous wanting of one body for another. "I just think it's fun."

Mohinder looks like he's been slapped-- cheeks flushed, lips parted, breathing heavily-- but his eyes are still sharply aware, alive with doubt. Sylar bites the inside of his cheek, watching as Mohinder shifts under his gaze, spine straightening and shoulders squaring almost unconsciously, the good bearing of a lecturer and the pride of a scholar providing his armor when clothes can't. It's a shock when Mohinder closes the space between them, fisting both hands in Sylar's paint-flecked shirt, and dark eyes meet and hold. "It's not fun," Mohinder says quietly, and when he kisses Sylar it's a whole different animal from the first kiss; this one has teeth and fight in it, the thrill of the hunt, Mohinder playing at predator and sending fire down Sylar's spine.

_Yes._ This is what he'd been hoping for, not the cowering scientist or the passionless researcher but the fierce, obstinate, challenging, heartbreakingly _human_ Mohinder, the one who did insane things like trying to tame a god with a drugged drink, the one who wouldn't let anything be easy because easy wasn't worth it. Framing Mohinder's face between his hands, Sylar herds him back against a table, pliant to the kiss but giving up no ground. Mohinder hisses when he bumps into the table, ducks his head and yanks at Sylar's shirt until Sylar pushes his hands away-- "did you forget how shirts work?" he asks dryly-- and tugs it off to toss aside. "No, wait." He intercepts Mohinder's hands on their return trajectory, interlacing their fingers briefly; his eyes darken as he looks down, absorbing the view of lean dark chest, messy curls, the line of Mohinder's jaw and the slope of his shoulders, the strain at the front of his khakis. "And to think I _wondered_ why you were on my mind..."

"I was?" Mohinder's hands clench on Sylar's reflexively, no longer trying to wriggle free.

"Oh, yes." Leaning down, Sylar breathes in the scent of Mohinder's hair, the heat of his skin, and lets his lips play across the dark shell of one ear. "Every day." Not in this capacity, certainly, but there hadn't been a day since he'd encountered Chandra's son when his thoughts hadn't come around to Mohinder one way or another.

"I'm not sure whether to be flattered or terrified." Sylar laughs against Mohinder's neck, releasing his hands only to take hold of his hips instead.

"Both, probably," he admits cheerfully, undoing Mohinder's pants telekinetically, leaving only the pleasant task of pushing the fabric away for his hands: fingers spread broad over Mohinder's narrow waist, palms dragging down until gravity steals the clothing the rest of the way down Mohinder's legs, and Sylar lifts him-- he feels like a bird, so beautiful and bright-eyed and flighty-- ignoring Mohinder's startled, annoyed "Hey!" to set him down bare and fierce, out from between the table and the wall of desire that has to be rippling outward, because Sylar's skin isn't enough to contain that much _want_, and he is a man experienced in wanting.

Mohinder jerks his chin up, looking so annoyed at that gentle instance of manhandling that it almost makes Sylar laugh. "You really are a work of art," he says fondly, the painted reflection of Mohinder defiant on the floor behind the real thing. Now that he's fulfilled that painting, Sylar is eager to add more color to that luscious bare body, to dip his fingers in cool sticky paint and leave his own secret marks all over Mohinder's skin; the urge to decorate is fighting a quick and dirty battle against the urge to drop to his knees and bury his face in Mohinder's skin, some different sort of (penance? adulation? plea for forgiveness? express rail to debauchery?) possessiveness, one marked with blood and flesh, not oils and brushes.

He's waited too long; Mohinder picks up the inertia, stalking closer to him one step, then another. "I could make the argument that we're both art right now," he points out, going so far as to aim a finger at the far-from-forgotten paintings behind himself. Sylar smirks and waits for his approach, watching Mohinder kick off his socks absently and pad closer on long bare feet. "Or that I wouldn't be here but for art."

"Oh, Mohinder." Shaking his head, Sylar just barely misses the brush of knuckles against his bare stomach, a touch that makes his muscles tense and breath catch. "You used to listen when I talked of destiny." Mohinder's eyebrows quirked, the only response while he nimbly unbuttoned Sylar's jeans, peeling back the fabric to reveal skin.

"Last time you talked of destiny, you had on underwear." God, that farce of a road trip seemed so long ago, back before Sylar knew the full measure of Mohinder's unique skill set-- not an ability, nothing he could take for himself, but so very valueable for being Mohinder. "You've lost weight," Mohinder adds in an undertone, almost--

"Is that actual concern in your voice, doctor? Don't worry, now that I'm not trying to cross the country with a major wound still healing, I'm sure I'll get back to my usual 'fit' instead of 'verge of emaciated'." Sylar doesn't expect the scowl Mohinder aims up at him, or the sudden yank of jeans going from around his hips to around his ankles in a flat second.

"You've always been underweight for a man your height," Mohinder says, no-nonsense; the way his slim hands spread dark over Sylar's skin-- prominent hip bones, the slight definition of muscle and the clearer definition of ribs-- is both clinical and startlingly intimate. "Once, I worried for you. Before I knew who you were, of course."

"God, you're romantic," Sylar mutters, catching Mohinder around the hips and bringing him closer. "You talk too much, Suresh." Brushing his lips gently over Mohinder's, Sylar draws away inch by inch and Mohinder follows, willing or unaware, until he's en pointe trying to get another kiss. Stability is overrated; they're unsteady things in ragged orbit around each other, clumsier the closer they get. Sylar's the one who overbalances, tripped by his jeans and Mohinder's insistence, though he only runs into the table; the hand that slaps back for balance lands directly on the palette, and he laughs into Mohinder's mouth, kicking away the clothing before leaning against the table casually.

"Since when is this about romance?" Mohinder's question is both late and breathless, serving only to brighten Sylar's cheery grin. When he strokes Mohinder's skin, fingers greedy on the round of his ass and the plane of his chest, Sylar shakes his head wordlessly; his fingers trail orange over the curve of one cheek and tweak yellow fingerprints onto and around a nipple, making Mohinder shift under the touches.

"Do you really want to think about what this is _about_?" Eyes still firmly on Mohinder's skin, Sylar refuses to meet the other man's questioning gaze; when he does look away it's to the unordered canvases still left on the floor. "I'm not patient enough to discuss feelings right now." Mohinder steps closer, bringing them into full contact: in the cool air of the laboratory loft, his body is radiant with heat, and Sylar sighs as he folds his arms around Mohinder, nuzzling into his hair. "Nothing is easy with you."

"You're one to talk." Mohinder seems more at ease with the closeness; his hands flutter down Sylar's sides, vanish for a moment only to come back cool and tacky with paint to leave his own marks: blue fingers on lean biceps, a neat handprint in purple right where the scar from Nakamura's sword should have been. "You live to complicate everything." Sylar chuckles, fighting to keep still when Mohinder trails fingertips over the ticklish place on his left side.

"I'm a watchmaker, Mohinder, I live to understand complexity." Like the interplay of the canvases that lead on from this point: he understands full well that they're going to be very busy men tonight, and that he doesn't want to waste time talking when there's so much more their mouths could be doing. For example, kissing. There's nothing romantic about this, to be sure. Mohinder duels back aggressively when Sylar's tongue invades his mouth; his hands tighten and leave Sylar's hair spiked with paint.

Skinny as he is, Sylar can still lift Mohinder with a little effort; he turns them, settling the Indian on the table and standing between his knees. "Fuck!" Mohinder yelps, shifting to pull the palette from under him. Sylar's eyes light up. So _that's_ why his ass looked like an Easter egg in the paintings. He's taken aback when Mohinder pulls him in, curling a leg around Sylar's hip to keep him close. "It's not funny," he mutters.

"You're too serious." Holding Mohinder's curls back, Sylar closes his lips around one earlobe and nibbles gently for a moment, drawing Mohinder's attention away from the hand working slowly down his chest until it's pressed against his hard, darkly flushed cock. "Ah. Should I ask permission, or assume that the paintings are a reasonable guide...?"

"It's nice to have a say..." Mohinder's hips jerk into the touch, though, and he tosses his head, dark hair scattering. "Not as if I'll say no."

"Give me carte blanche. Let me surprise you," Sylar whispers against his cheek, his whole body taut as a wire with the thought of Mohinder yielding that much power to him. He tugs Mohinder closer to the edge of the table, can't control his groan when they make contact; they're both erect and their cockheads are shiny with precome, both eager to live up to their artistic goals. "Say yes," he urges, and Mohinder's head falls to Sylar's shoulder.

"Yes," he says, and Sylar immediately sinks his teeth into the side of Mohinder's neck, biting down and sucking hard enough to leave a mark visible for anyone who looks at Mohinder. _I was here_, it reads in the graffiti of the body, and Mohinder's cry never reaches the height of pain.

"God, you _like_ being bitten, don't you?" Mohinder nods helplessly, clutching at Sylar's shoulders. "That's so deviant of you, doctor!"

"You have no idea what else I like if you think that's deviant," Mohinder shoots back, and when he looks down to meet the American's eyes, it's not surrender that's in his gaze: it's lust, pure and distilled down to its neediest. "Don't tell me you're all talk..." Sylar rolls his eyes; he never backs down from a challenge, and this might be the best one he's ever had offered to him.

"Feel free to grade my performance later," he says offhandedly, pulling Mohinder's head back by a handful of curls and nipping smooth cinnamon shoulders, mouthing the hollow of his throat. He lowers his head to lick at one nipple, not realizing until he tastes pigment that it's the one with sunflower-bright smudges across it; he makes a face and rolls the tight nub between his teeth, too proud to pull away. When Mohinder wraps a hand around them both, they groan in shaky unison. "If you knew all the things I want to do to you right now..."

"I won't know until you do them, so _do them_." Sylar peels Mohinder's fingers away, freeing himself to go down on his knees; one hand covered in paint, he grips Mohinder's hips and studies the slim cock before him, blowing a teasing breath across the head and making it twitch without any contact. "Fuck, Sylar," Mohinder moans, and Sylar glances up in surprise; that's the first time Mohinder said his name, and he said it with such pretty pleading tones...

Lips sliding over the slick tip, Sylar laps at Mohinder, tracing around and prodding at the foreskin curiously. He has to squeeze hard to keep Mohinder from bucking into his mouth; a glance up shows white teeth sunk into Mohinder's lower lip, Mohinder's chin dropped to his chest and his eyes trained on Sylar. Dipping his head closer, Sylar takes Mohinder further into his mouth, humming with pride when he manages to swallow around the entire length. Mohinder curses, curving a hand along the back of Sylar's head and keeping that hot pink mouth just where he wants it; not once does he worry about the possible consequences of face-fucking a psychopath. Luckily for him, Sylar realizes that he sort of enjoys it, letting Mohinder thrust a few times before he pulls back, licking the corner of his lips.

"Say it again." _Keep saying it and I'll give you anything you ask for,_ Sylar thinks giddily, running his hands over Mohinder's thighs. "Say my name."

"Sylar..." Mohinder's lips twitch; it's bizarre to be calling out his mortal rival's name, but not as bizarre as getting a blowjob from him. "Don't stop, Sylar." The American grins, shaking his head no.

"I'm not stopping, I'm moving along." He drags his scratchy cheek up the inside of Mohinder's leg, then noses under the proud cock until he can pull the taut, lightly furred sac into his mouth, making Mohinder hiss out a breath. The long muscles of his thighs tense up, and Sylar holds his legs apart absently, focused on the weight and the shape of his balls; he releases them to gently suck one at a time, and the sudden impact of Mohinder's back on the table startles him into drop-jawed surprise. "Mohinder?"

"I'm-- I'm fine, that just..." When Sylar stands up, he's greeted by Mohinder's sheepish face. "That felt fucking fantastic." One eyebrow arched, Sylar purses his lips, and Mohinder shrugs. "Usually it's not a problem, but usually I'm on a bed."

"Point taken." Mohinder holds out a hand, and Sylar pulls him up and into strong arms, a tight hug. "It's nice to see you're finally embracing your destiny."

"If that's the best pun you can make, you should go back to other uses for your mouth." Mohinder touches Sylar's lips, pink and full, and smirks; Sylar returns the smirk with smugness to spare.

"If you say so. Turn around," he orders, pushing Mohinder down to the table with a hand on his back once the darker man complies. Sylar bites his tongue to keep in the words that want to spill out, words like _gorgeous_ and _perfect_ and _could keep you forever_, and starts to nuzzle his way down the elegant length of Mohinder's back. He pauses to leave the imprint of his teeth below Mohinder's ribs, a perfect dental record that no one but Mohinder will know about, grinning against the bruising skin when Mohinder's breath goes rough and scattered with moans.

There's a sheen of sweat along Mohinder's lower back, and Sylar tastes the salt of his skin, sweeter than blood, cleaner than the ocean. He mouths from hip to hip, one long lick of caramel skin that's more like saltwater taffy under his tongue. "Damn you, stop teasing," Mohinder groans when Sylar fails to move on, squeezing Mohinder's ass but still kissing along his spine, laughing quietly.

"First I'm not kinky enough, then I'm going too slow. Are you always this critical, or do you just hold me to a higher standard?" Sylar doesn't give Mohinder a chance to respond, simply moves along to the next stop on the tour of his body: nosing down until his stubble scratches the divide of Mohinder's perfect ass, spreading wider to give him access and licking tentatively. When Mohinder keens, whole body quaking, Sylar does it again, this time dragging his tongue through the whole length of the crack, from just behind Mohinder's balls all the way to his tailbone.

"_Fuck_!" Mohinder crosses his arms on the table, pressing his face into them desperately. "Oh god, please don't stop!" There isn't a chance of that happening; all he can smell is Mohinder, all he can feel, and every tiny "ah!" that escapes Mohinder's lips only spurs Sylar on. Under his hands, Mohinder's muscles tense and relax, waves of pleasure in time with the lashing of Sylar's tongue on rarely-touched skin. When Mohinder gasps something barely coherent about being close, that's when Sylar draws away, looking down with a sense of pride at the smaller man trembling like a struck bell.

"Not yet." Leaning on the table next to Mohinder, Sylar pushes back a few sweaty curls and smiles at the wide-eyed, shocked look in those dark eyes. He brushes his lips against the curve of Mohinder's ear and confides, "You'll come when I'm inside you, Mohinder." He summons the bottle of linseed oil with a thought; not needed for painting purposes, but useful after all. "Relax, it'll be soon."

The unexpected trickle of oil between his cheeks makes Mohinder suck in a hissed breath, but Sylar chases the cold liquid with his warm fingers, soothing away the chill. When Mohinder gets home, he's certain he'll have some sort of mental break, but right now nothing feels more natural than lifting his hips, welcoming the touch of precise fingers caressing him and fingertips pressing shallowly into him, stretching a bit at a time. "Go easy," he pleads.

"Relax," Sylar breathes again, kissing Mohinder's back while invading his body with three oiled fingers, neither gentle nor slow but nonetheless careful. Mohinder's jaw is clenched, his lips pressed thin, but the tension eases away when Sylar rubs down his stomach, grips his erection firmly. When Mohinder sighs and finally presses back into the touch, it's hard for Sylar not to grin-- well, that's a new use for his telekinesis, and one for the books!-- but he keeps the steady trail of kisses going as he stretches Mohinder until he's satisfied. "Are you ready?"

"Ye-yes," Mohinder's voice catches, but it's only in need, not hesitation. Sylar urges him to turn onto his back and settles between Mohinder's legs, his mouth solemn but his eyes showing his elation. "Yes, I'm ready..." When Sylar remains still, Mohinder's eyes narrow; he hooks a leg around the taller man's waist and pulls him closer. "Well?"

"What? I'm savoring the moment." Deliberately slow, Sylar slicks himself and rubs the head of his cock against Mohinder's entrance, teasing until Mohinder gives him a furious glare.

"Sylar! Will you fuck me already!" he snaps, and that's all Sylar wanted to hear; he slides into Mohinder with all the ease of a key into its one intended lock, and a shift of hips releases Mohinder's frustration. Pulling Sylar down, Mohinder gets a handful of his hair and bites at his mouth with a clumsy kiss.

The intention to draw things out is abandoned when Mohinder's short nails dig into Sylar's shoulder; he has time for a few shallow thrusts before he loses control and starts pounding into Mohinder's writhing, eager body, their mouths sloppy with kisses landing on cheeks, chins, jawlines more than they land on lips. Mohinder's head falls back when Sylar scrapes teeth over his stubble, following it down his throat and biting small and stinging marks all along the base of his neck. "This is, mm, _exquisite_," Sylar gasps, pulling Mohinder's hips up with both hands and driving into him deeper. When the soft rhythmic gasps escaping Mohinder become loud, when his hands go from rough to painful in Sylar's hair and on his skin, when Sylar can see Mohinder's cock twitching with need to be touched, he gets a hand around him and strokes, hard arrhythmic pulls until Mohinder's back arches off the table.

Mohinder sighs when he comes, a long low vowel melting into Sylar's ears while thick white come paints his hand with paler stripes on already-pale skin. Slowing down to watch the first purely positive emotion he's ever seen cross Mohinder's lovely face, Sylar bites down on his lower lip in a desperate bid to hold on a little longer, to not have to end this just yet... but when Mohinder's eyes open, nearsighted and darker-than-dark with an endorphin rush, Sylar closes his eyes and pulls away, overwhelmed by that expression aimed at him when it means nothing. He's coming before he can back off enough, a strand lacing pearly from Mohinder's hole to his thigh, and he spends himself across Mohinder's slowly softening cock and the painted handprint on his hip.

His head on Mohinder's chest, Sylar's ever-ticking mind goes silent for just long enough for him to believe in peace, in some possibility that life can mirror art in more ways than this one, in a future where Mohinder is all he needs to satisfy his driving need for knowledge and challenge and affirmation.

The silence shatters into the sound of a thousand clocks when Mohinder pushes Sylar away, slipping out from under his limbs to walk away into the lab. Once again his priorities fall into place. This was a pleasant interlude, nothing more; his immediate goal lies in Costa Verde, across the entire country from this dark, chilly place in New York. When he turns, Sylar has some cutting remark ready on his lips, but they fall away unvoiced at what he sees.

Mohinder has finished arranging the paintings from beginning to end, charting the course of every incredible, filthy, unforgettable thing they did together. He stands by the last one and looks at Sylar, his body spattered with paint and come and darkening bruises, and tilts his head toward that final painting.

It's not of the loft laboratory. This is the gentlest painting: almost no angles, no dark colors, and no way to mistake what's depicted.

"I didn't draw that," Sylar says, a note of confusion in his voice. Mohinder shakes his head.

"It was beside the easel. Look, the paint is smudged." Sylar is too stuck on what's in the center of the image to notice any flaws at the edges.

A window full of sunrise. A closet door. The sturdy frame of a bed, pale blue sheets, a dark blue blanket heaped on the floor. Two bodies spooned together under the sheet, two heads of dark hair, two pairs of feet sticking out from the bottom of the sheet: the big spoon's skin stark white, the little spoon painted a caramel hue.

"That's--" Mohinder nods, sucking on his lower lip briefly before crossing the floor to stand before Sylar once more. "You think that--"

"You said that they're all in the future. Someplace, some time." Head lifted in that peculiar proud way, Mohinder couldn't look more serious, in spite of his debauched appearance. "If that's true, then come find me when you cage the monster in yourself, and I'll show you where that room is."

"It's a place you know?" Sylar can't help a note of disbelief, and Mohinder smiles wistfully.

"It's a place I would only bring someone who had earned my trust, Sylar. Think about that." Going up on his toes, Mohinder presses his lips to Sylar's cheek and quietly admits, "I thought of you every day, too," before he crosses the room and shuts the door to the small bathroom behind him.

When Mohinder emerges, clean of all the marks save those left under his skin, Sylar is gone; the only other things missing are his clothes and the last painting.


End file.
